


the fictional romance and the technicolor dream

by resonant_aura



Category: Persona 5, Persona Series
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Drabbles, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, i'm serious you'll get cavities
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-10
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-10-30 08:56:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10873437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/resonant_aura/pseuds/resonant_aura
Summary: A collection of independent drabbles revolving around the following: Yusuke/Akira, domestic, fluff.





	1. watch

**Author's Note:**

> All recognizable intellectual property belongs to ATLUS/Sega. I just brewed a different pot of coffee. (It's got a freak-ton of sugar and cream in it apparently.) The title is from "Black & White People" by Matchbox Twenty.
> 
> It occurred to me as I was working on the third chapter of Body of Art that it's going to be very. very. heavy. That's a heavy fic. So this is a little exercise to lighten my own psyche, and maybe bring a little fluffy sparkle to yours.

Yusuke doesn’t know how to tell time.

Well, that’s not exactly right. He knows _how._ He’s just really, really, really bad at doing it. Which is probably why by the time he shows up at Leblanc, smiling and bright-eyed, Akira is already two cups of coffee and a pulled muscle into dangerously exasperated territory.

“I’m here!” Yusuke announces over the jangling of the doorbell. “Now, where is this monstrous contraption that needs our attention?”

“Upstairs,” Akira replies shortly, keeping his hands busy with dish-washing. The dishes aren’t dirty. But it’s something to do.

“Upstairs?” Yusuke’s expression clouds as quickly as a disturbed puddle. “But I thought—”

“One of the delivery men helped me.”

“Oh. Well, then shall we begin the assembly?”

“Already finished.”

Akira keeps his eyes steadily trained on the dish basin. It’s utterly quiet behind him, only the slow creaking of the ceiling fans to prick his ears. Then he hears the slow exhalation, and he can _almost_ hear Yusuke’s enthusiasm drop to the ground like a shed coat. “I’m late, aren’t I,” he murmurs in a voice so low it’s hard to make out. Akira glances his shoulder, observing the slump to his boyfriend’s shoulders as the taller boy folds into a bar stool and hunches over the counter. His expression is pained, brows sharply drawn down and lips thinned with dejection. “I’m so sorry. I… I lost track of time…”

Wordlessly, Akira drains the water and turns to rest his aching back against the sink. He folds his arms and waits, but he finds his frustration and anger sliding away as quickly as the soap suds. Yusuke looks ready to beat himself with one of Ann’s old whips. That isn’t really what he wants right now.

Akira takes a deep breath and lets it out long and slow. Then he walks over to the bar and leans into Yusuke’s space, covering one fisted hand with his own. “Hey,” he says softly. “At least I know what to get you for our anniversary.”

Yusuke winces a little. “Oh?”

“Yeah. A watch.” Akira ducks his head, fishing for a grin with his playful smirk. “A _really_ big one. Obnoxiously big and sparkly so you’ll pay attention to it. With lots of flashing lights and different alarm tones. You’ll never forget to eat again.”

Yusuke’s eyes slide up to Akira’s, and very slowly the misery relaxes from his face. The corner of his mouth quirks up. “If it interrupts my time in the workshop, I will have no choice but to silence it. By force.”

“I’ll just get you a new one.”

“Let’s not draw our battle lines here.”

“Cowboys used to draw at dawn. Maybe I should set your first alarm for sunrise,” Akira teases, pressing an imaginary button on Yusuke’s wrist. He finally gets a reluctant chuckle out of his woebegone companion and twines their fingers together on the counter. “Wanna see what all my hard work has got us?”

“Of course,” Yusuke replies smoothly, equilibrium restored. Akira doesn’t let go of his hand as he walks around the end of the bar and leads the taller young man up the narrow stairs. He takes the liberty of a dramatic sweep of the attic with his free hand once they reach the top, gesturing to the room at large—and its unmistakable addition.

Yusuke stops at the head of the stairs and takes it in with a puckered brow. “It’s… big,” he says at last, clearly skeptical. “Very big.”

“Yes it is,” Akira says with emphasis. “All one hundred and eighteen pieces of it.”

“So many.”

“I’m including every single bolt. Because I had to screw in every single bolt. By myself.” Yusuke gives him a worried glance, and Akira answers him with a sheepish smile. “I didn’t have the delivery men stay to help with installation and assembly because _somebody_ said they would be done with their meet and greet by two. And I may have overestimated my, erm… handiness.”

“You? Impossible,” Yusuke scoffs with such genuine, unironic confidence that Akira blushes and looks away. “Was it a formidable enemy then?”

“The most. IKEA has an army of demons stronger than the entirety of Tokyo’s subconscious.”

Yusuke nods solemnly. “You must have suffered terribly. I will relieve you of your pain, in penance for my tardiness.”

“Thank you,” Akira says brightly, making no secret of his eagerness as he skips across the floor and leaps into the fluffy nest of bedclothes awaiting him. He pats the mattress beside him and tries not to laugh at Yusuke’s more dubious approach. He knows Yusuke’s traditional streak extends significantly to his preferences in décor—but he is absolutely ready to prove that, at least when it comes to queen-sized beds, some compromises are absolutely worth it.


	2. prick

When Akira first returned to Tokyo, he insisted on living over Leblanc. Sojiro offered to move him into his residence, Yusuke had earned a scholarship to graduate school and was able to afford a modest apartment in the students’ neighborhoods, Makoto and Haru and even Ryuji all offered to put him up for a short time until he found his own place that suited him—but he absolutely did not budge. He said Leblanc was the place that suited him best and that was that. And Morgana, who also felt that Leblanc was his home (or rather, that he owned it), had agreed heartily on the condition that he be paid rent in the form of decent chicken.

He continued working part-time while going to college (business administration, a focus in hospitality and ethical sourcing), and in that miraculous way he had about him that always left Yusuke equal parts impressed and confused, he just happened to meet someone who supplied the convenience store who knew someone who worked for someone who was looking for an up-and-coming youth to help out with the sustainability standards of their quickly-growing organic goods company. It baffled Yusuke in the extreme—a cabbage was a cabbage, did it matter where it was grown? and was organic really worth the extra 3000 yen?—but he was happy that Akira was happy, doing something important to him.

Of course, it meant that there were always people at Café Leblanc. Good for the Sakuras, and for Akira; bad for Yusuke, who really wished there was at least a curtain hanging over the stairwell leading to Akira’s attic. After the fifth time an excited co-worker or tentative Sojiro (who knew better than to barge in but still felt it his guardian’s duty to ‘check on them’) clomped up the stairs and _interrupted_ Akira finally admitted it would probably be better if they didn’t try to be intimate at his home. Which would have been fine, if Akira _ever_ went somewhere besides Leblanc or work or school.

“He totally does though,” Morgana said as he lapped at the saucer of cream Yusuke had placed on the table for him. “He’s kind of all over the place. He has to be to meet all the people he needs to know to do his job.”

“Who does he have to meet?” Yusuke asked, perplexed. Morgana gave him the most smug of cat-faced looks.

“Who’s he meeting? Oh, you know… people… are you _jealous_ , Yusuke?”

Yusuke blinked. It hadn’t occurred to him to be jealous. None of those people he was meeting were Yusuke, and Akira said he only loved Yusuke, therefore he had no reason to be jealous. Right? “Should I be?”

Morgana sighed heavily and began washing his ears. “You’re no fun.” Yusuke tilted his head in a questioning gesture, but the cat seemed entirely consumed with his impromptu bath. Yusuke let out a tiny ‘hmph’ and looked out the windows, wondering if he should have texted Akira. “I guess it kinda sucks, not being able to see him whenever you want.”

“It isn’t that,” Yusuke sighed. “I would never presume to impose on his time so much. But… I find myself missing him. Even though he has returned.”

“Yeah.” Morgana gave him a long look, then returned to lapping at the cream.

The time crept by slowly, but eventually it did pass and brought Akira over the threshold, dragging his feet. He perked up when he saw Yusuke inexpertly fussing with the siphons, a fond smile crossing his face. “Hey.”

“Ah!” Yusuke straightened, looking dismayed. “You’re back! I haven’t yet perfected the use of this machine. I intended to brew some restorative for you, but it’s… more difficult than it looks…”

“Took me ages to figure it out. Here. I’ll help.”

Morgana stretched on the table, ignoring Akira’s disapproving glance. “Hey, uh… is anybody supposed to be meeting with you, Akira…?”

Akira fidgeted with his glasses, an affectation he refused to give up on. “Nnno…?”

“Then you should go upstairs with Yusuke. I’ll keep watch.”

Both men went still, eyes wide. Akira coughed. Yusuke cleared his throat.

“What are you two standing around for? Look, if anything happens, I’ll just—sound the alarm. Or something.” Morgana nimbly leapt to the ground, then up into the windowsill, handsome sleek shoulders turned to the two still standing dumbfounded behind the bar. His tail switched back and forth lazily and one ear swiveled backwards. A few seconds passed before his head spun around, eyes narrowed. “Are you guys idiots or what? Go kiss already!”

“Uhm, Morgana—”

“Yes,” Yusuke said, suddenly possessed of a determination unrivaled even by the likes of ancient heroes. “Your gift is appreciated, Morgana.”

“Yusuke—!”

“Let’s not discuss it further,” said Yusuke, marching towards the attic stairs with Akira’s collar in a firm grip.

As it happened, discussion did not happen for several hours after, except of the distinctly non-verbal kind. Later, as they indulged in lazy snuggles, Morgana’s silky ears and the white tip of his tail peeked over the edge of the floorboards—a discreet but useful signal, just as they heard the bell ring on the door downstairs and Sojiro’s familiar mumbling. They were able to make themselves presentable without mishap for the first time in weeks (and so Yusuke could endure Futaba’s sly remarks with an unruffled affability.)

Without another word being mentioned—not from Yusuke, nor Akira, nor Morgana—this became a trusted signal between the three of them, a very special offering for their own tiny subset of their much larger family. There were times when Yusuke felt lonely and times when Akira felt pressured, and when those times came around Morgana leapt into the window at Leblanc’s and the two boys disappeared into their haven. In time, the sight of Morgana’s pricked ears became almost as treasured in Yusuke’s heart as the sleepy smile on his lover’s face.


	3. rotten

After two weeks away, Akira was looking forward to seeing Leblanc again. So was Yusuke. Los Angeles was just as busy as Tokyo most of the time, but living out of a hotel room, no matter how luxurious, lost its charm after a while. And it was literally impossible to find a decent bowl of miso soup in America. Half the wonder in a honeymoon, Ann had sighed with stars in her eyes, was getting to come back home again after. Which would have been true, if only—

“Augh!”

“What the hell—?!”

—if only home hadn’t smelled like a biofuel station.

Yusuke lifted his shirt over his nose, eyes watering. “What _is_ that…?”

Akira groaned, tossing his duffel bag into one of the banquettes. “Don’t tell me…” He sighed and carded a hand through his hair. “Can you go get the bags out of the car, Yusuke?”

His husband (his heart still thumped a little faster at that word) stared at him with wide, horror-struck eyes. “You can’t mean—! You don’t mean to suggest we’re _staying_ here? When it’s like this?”

“It’s a rental car, Yusuke, we’re gonna have to take it back one way or the other.”

“Yes, but… surely… we could use it to escape first…”

Akira smiled ruefully and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’ll figure it out.”

Yusuke heaved a dramatic sigh, but he left in a hurry when he realized fetching the bags meant fresh air. Akira fished a handkerchief out of his duffel and tied it around his nose as he went to investigate. It didn’t take long to find the culprit. The smell was strongest in the kitchen, and when Akira opened the fire exit to the small open-air courtyard behind the café, the smell gained an acidic edge. He shook his head and grabbed the large bins for combustible trash and rolled them into the doorway. As he expected, when he opened the refrigerator, the smell grew worse—a wet kind of smell that clogged the back of his throat.

“It smells green,” Yusuke complained as he reentered the café, a large suitcase in either hand. He sniffed curiously and recoiled. “No—green and _brown_.”

“Try black.” Akira held up a quarter-full container of Chinese takeout, its contents almost completely obscured by the blackish mold growing on the lid.

Yusuke groaned and slumped into a chair at the bar. “Do you… need any help…?”

“You could open all the windows for me?”

“An excellent idea.” As he swept from frame to frame, throwing open the windows with violent eagerness, Yusuke mused over his shoulder, “I thought our friends agreed to watch Leblanc for us until our return?”

“I think they _did_.”

Yusuke’s lip curled. _“Ryuji.”_

Akira laughed, sweeping an armful of wilted, fuzzy-white cabbage leaves into a trash bag. “We don’t know that it was just him.”

“You’re right. Ryuji _and_ Futaba. Their visiting privileges are revoked henceforth.”

“Come on, Yusuke, at least they didn’t burn the place down…”

“They may as well have for all the use we’ll get out of it for the next two days. How could they not have noticed the smell?” Yusuke’s nose wrinkled as he thought. “Will your food service license be revoked?”

“I hope not. We’ll just request an inspection if we need to.”

The two worked industriously to cleanse their unfortunate home. Yusuke opened every window upstairs and down and lit candles all around the dining area. Akira emptied the refrigerator entirely (just as well that he had purposefully used up their ingredients stock before they left) and filled two large garbage bags and then stood over the large pickling tub outside the door. “I _told_ them to check it every couple of days.”

Yusuke joined him over the pickling tub. It was a sad, small funeral. “Well. You did say the first batch was unlikely to turn out right.”

“I wanted umeboshi,” Akira sighed, trying not to pout. He leaned on Yusuke’s shoulder, mourning his first failed pickling attempt.

Yusuke put his arm around Akira’s back. “I’m sure your future attempts will bear fruit most satisfactorily. Now please put those in the trash, they smell as bad as the rest of the kitchen.”

Akira let out a long, dismayed groan, but he did as he was asked. Eventually the two of them collapsed at a table, suitcases at the foot of the stairs, candles fluttering slowly around them. Yusuke sighed heavily and dropped his head back against the frame of the bench. “Akira.”

“Yusuke.”

“I’m hungry.”

“Me too.”

Yusuke stirred just enough to slit his eyes open and give him a look down his long nose. Akira smirked faintly.

“I’m the one who had to give up on my pickled plums.”

“You’re also the one who arranged for inadequate house-sitting.”

Akira chuckled and reached out a hand. Yusuke slid his long, cool fingers into Akira’s palm, and they sat quietly in the candlelight, breathing a little easier with the fresh air breezing through the café.

“Akira.”

“Yusuke?”

_“Akira.”_

_“Yusuke.”_

Loftily Yusuke turned his head away. “I shall reclaim my hand if you continue to be so obtuse.”

Fondly, Akira looked down at their hands. Neither of them particularly wanted to wear their wedding bands—Yusuke said it threw off the balance of his brushes, and Akira didn’t want his around all the cooking—but he could still remember it on Yusuke’s hand the night after the ceremony, sparkling even in the dim lights of the airplane cabin. He squeezed Yusuke’s hand in his. “Too late. You already took the vow and everything.”

He could see the smile creep across Yusuke’s lips even in profile. “Indeed. We have a contract.” Yusuke gave him a sidelong look. “Surely food is part of that contract?”

Huffing in exasperated laughter, Akira released his husband and threw his hands up in the air. “All right!” he capitulated. “All right, all right, what does the belly god demand today? Udon? Tonkatsu?”

“Yakimono,” Yusuke said. “And tempura.”

“Yakimono _and_ tempura?”

“The contrast in texture and flavor between the char of the grill and the sweetness of the oil is—”

“Okay,” Akira said hurriedly, “Come on, let’s go eat.”

He rose and made for the door, still keeping a comfortable grip on Yusuke’s hand, but stopped short when he realized the other man wasn’t moving. Akira looked back, puzzled. Yusuke was turned around in the banquette, his arm extended to keep hold of Akira’s hand, and he was looking up with an expression so clear and bright Akira actually felt a blush rising in his face. “Akira,” Yusuke murmured in that tone he sometimes got, the velvety low one that made Akira’s knees turn to water, “you know how happy I am to be here with you? Even like this, weary and hungry and sitting in a room that was clearly abandoned to stench spirits—you know I’m so—I am _effervescent_ with joy,” he squeezed Akira’s fingertips gently, “just to be holding your hand like this.”

Akira swallowed hard. “I—yeah,” he stuttered, “I just—I mean—well, I love you. Obviously.”

Yusuke nodded and rose from the table. “All right. We can go now.” He glided past Akira, who was gaping like a grounded fish.

“You—wha— _how?!”_

“Hm?”

“Gah—let’s just go!” Akira fumbled for his keys and adamantly denied his red face whenever his husband mentioned it as they walked into the city.


End file.
